


if you care to say your prayers

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1x12: Faith, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, heart failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8069992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Dean tries his best at a cocky grin. It does little to hide that he’s shivering despite the layers of blankets and Sam’s hoodie tucked around him. The pallor of his face and the grey hollows around his eyes. The way his pale hands are folded listlessly against his chest, over the crisp hospital linens.White and white and white.





	

Dean says, “Jesus, Sam. You look like shit. Go get some sleep.”

Sam looks at Dean over his laptop screen. The only part of his brother with colour anymore are his lips, chapped from dehydration but still pink. Bruising purple around the edges from Sam’s attempts to resuscitate him in the long minutes before the ambulance showed up, concrete under his knees and water soaking his jeans and Dean going colder and colder with every set of chest compressions.

Sam doesn’t have the heart to argue, not when Dean is so certain he’s going to die. Besides, Sam’s laptop is low on battery and the charger is in his bag back at the motel.

“You’ll be okay until I get back?”

Dean tries his best at a cocky grin. It does little to hide that he’s shivering despite the layers of blankets and Sam’s hoodie tucked around him. The pallor of his face and the grey hollows around his eyes. The way his pale hands are folded listlessly against his chest, over the crisp hospital linens.

White and white and white.

“Sure thing, Sammy. Now get the fuck out of here.”

+

Sam leafs through the pages of dad’s journal and calls every number he can find, trades information and leaves messages on machines until his voice is hoarse and he’s blinking sleep out of his eyes. By the time his phone is beeping critical battery warnings at him and he’s flipping through empty pages of loose-leaf with raw, bitten-down fingers, the sun has risen and set and risen again.

Noon light is streaming hazy through the thin motel curtains and Sam feels quiet, strangely empty, like someone scooped out all his insides with a spoon when he wasn’t paying attention. He plugs his phone in, lays his head down on his arms and closes his eyes. Just for a minute, then he’ll get it together, find more names to call.

He blinks awake to his phone ringing shrilly. The number on the display is blocked. It’s dark outside again.

+ 

Dad doesn’t answer his phone, of course.

Sam isn’t entirely sure why he even calls. Maybe it’s some kind of desperate last-ditch effort to get a response. If his own son’s terminal diagnosis won’t drive him to pick up his goddamn phone, nothing will. Mostly, Sam thinks he wants to prove to dad once and for all that they don’t need him to drag them back from the brink anymore. Show him that Sam has it covered all on his own.

Sam hangs up and tosses his phone to the mattress. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, gnaws at his nailbeds, checks the time. It’s after nine, which means visiting hours at the hospital are over. He’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get Dean checked out and in the car.

The glow of the laptop hurts his eyes. The road to Albion, Nebraska is a blue river trailing across the screen, warping and wavering when he looks at it too long. Christ, he needs to sleep.

Someone knocks on the door.

+

Dean looks worse now than when Sam last left the hospital. He lists sideways in his chair while Sam tells him about Nebraska, leaning heavily on the armrest. The bus ride from the hospital drained him, and the prospect of travelling seems to make him even more hollowed out. His voice breaks on a combination of exhaustion and wry amusement when he says, “You aren’t gonna let me die in peace, are you?”

Dean says he’s too tired to brush his teeth and too cold to change out of his clothes, so he climbs into bed still in his jeans and Sam’s hoodie, slapping Sam’s hands away when he tries to help. He’s asleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

Sam heads into the cramped bathroom to brush his teeth. He can’t remember the last time he showered, but he doesn’t think he smells too bad. He gargles some mouthwash, spits. Studies his reflection for a minute in the smudged mirror above the sink, cataloguing the hard set of his jaw, the emptiness in his eyes. Sometimes, Sam struggles to recognize himself.

He splashes some water on his face and turns off the light. Then, something starts making an awful, moaning sound. It only takes Sam a second to locate the source.

Dean is awake and on his side, struggling to prop himself up on an elbow. He’s clutching desperately at his chest, sputtering and wheezing like he’s choking. His eyes are wide and glassy with panic.

For a moment, Sam freezes up, thinks _This is it. I know how to save him, and he’s going to die anyway._ Then his brain kicks back online and he remembers one of the nurses saying that heart failure made breathing a lot harder, especially lying down flat.

Sam takes three steps across the carpet to Dean’s bed, grips his forearms and hauls him upright. Dean leans into Sam while he catches his breath and Sam keeps a firm hold on his shoulder, says, “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got you.”

When Dean has his breathing under control, Sam sits him against the headboard and gathers up all the pillows from his own bed, the couch, and the dusty linen closet. Dean is too exhausted to protest when Sam leans him forward again, arranges the pillows behind him, and then eases him back down against them.

Sam resists the urge to smooth the wrinkles out of Dean’s blankets. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Dean is still shaking a little. “Fuck.”

“Go back to sleep. We’ll be driving all day tomorrow.”

Dean lets out a weary sigh and appears to follow Sam’s instructions. When Sam jerks awake at some undetermined time, though, heart lurching in his throat and the phantom sizzle of human flesh still burning above him, Dean is awake, too. His breathing seems regular enough, though it catches oddly on every couple of inhales. He’s looking up at the ceiling, his eyes glistening in the low light.

If he knows Sam is awake, he gives no sign of it. As usual, they grant each other the dignity of grieving in peace.

+

Sam gets out of bed while it’s still grey outside. Dean is asleep again. It’s a ten-hour drive to Albion, but they don’t have to be there until tomorrow anyway. Sam decides to let Dean sleep and walks to the diner across the street to pick up breakfast.

When he returns with food, Dean is sitting on the curb outside their room, still wrapped in Sam’s hoodie, elbows on his knees and a cigarette between his pale fingers.

The anger that always simmers under Sam’s skin these days breaks to the surface, boils over.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sam’s voice comes out a lot calmer than he expects, cool and clipped despite the rage burning in his throat.

Dean rolls his head to look up at Sam but doesn’t move to stand. Probably can’t, not on his own. “What’s it look like?” He gestures vaguely around the parking lot. “Getting some fresh air, communing with nature.”

“Not funny.” Sam swipes at the cigarette but Dean lifts it out of reach. “Do you even know how dangerous that is? You’re going to kill yourself.”

Dean laughs, dry and humourless. “Already did, last time I checked.”

Sam snatches the smoke from Dean’s icy fingers, grinds it under the heel of his shoe.

Dean glares at him. “What the fuck, Sam?” He lashes out, trying to push Sam away, but there’s no strength behind it and Sam easily steps out of reach. Dean loses his balance, momentum carrying him forward, and goes down hard on the palms of his hands. The wheezing noises from last night start up again. He rolls onto his side and rubs at his chest.

All Sam’s anger drains away. “Shit.” He gets on his knees next to Dean, dropping the bag of food on the ground. Dean shoves at him ineffectually for a few seconds and then lets Sam drag him upright by the shoulders, clutching weakly at his elbow.

It takes Dean longer to get his breath back this time. Sam sets a slow, even rhythm for him to match. Together, they study Dean’s skinned palms.

After a while, Dean pats his knee clumsily and Sam realizes he’s talking, murmuring “Sorry. Fuck, Dean, sorry. I’m sorry.”

“S’alright, Sammy. Don’t worry about it,” Dean is saying. His voice is wrecked. He smells like smoke and sweat and a sharp sweetness like decomposing leaves in autumn. 

+

Dean sleeps most of the way to Nebraska, leaning against the passenger window, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. Sam has the heat cranked so high he’s sweating, but for the first time in days Dean isn’t shivering. He wakes intermittently to cough hard into the crook of his elbow, or to disparage Sam’s choice of music. When he’s awake, Sam encourages him to take sips of water, eat a little food. Dean’s appetite has all but disappeared, and the most Sam can get into him is half a strawberry milkshake on their way through South Dakota.

When the sun is edging down below the horizon and the sky is lit up in brilliant pinks and oranges, Dean clears his throat and says, “You call dad?”

Sam’s fingers tighten on the wheel. “No.”

Dean studies him carefully for a long moment, then pronounces, “Liar.” He rolls his head to look back out the window, at the way the sunset lights up the endless fields of corn like gold silk, shimmering gently in the breeze. “You don’t have to protect me from him.”

He says it so softly, like he’s whispering a secret or falling asleep, fading out already.

+

By the time they get to Albion, Dean is stiff and barely coherent despite having slept all day. He works on levering himself out of the car while Sam goes into the office to get them a room on the ground floor. Sam hangs onto his elbow across the parking lot, but Dean shakes him off when they get inside.

“Get off me. I gotta piss.” He shuffles to the bathroom and shuts the door as forcefully as his weakened body will let him.

“Take a shower, dude,” Sam calls through the thin door. “You reek.”

When Dean emerges, he’s still in the same clothes, clearly unwashed. He’s shivering again, and he climbs under the covers Sam has pulled back for him without comment.

“So when do we meet this doctor?” Dean says wearily, leaning back into his mountain of pillows. “And what the hell’s a cardiac specialist doing in the middle of Buttfuck, Nebraska anyway?”

“Tomorrow. A little way outside town.” Sam settles on the other bed and opens his laptop. “I think it’s safe to say that hoodie’s beyond saving. I’m gonna have to burn it by the time you take it off.”

“Fuck off,” Dean mumbles, halfway asleep again.

Sam is too keyed-up to sleep. A sudden surge of anxiety overcomes the strange calm he’s felt all day. They’re running on limited time, and if this Le Grange thing is a bust, he needs to know where to head next. He scours the internet for any other leads, pores over dad’s journal again and again like it contains the hidden secrets of the universe until his eyelids are heavy.

+

Everything is sleep-fuzzy in that way where Sam isn’t sure whether he’s still dreaming or not. He can’t see much, but that’s pretty par for the course. It doesn’t sound like his dreams normally do, though. Usually there’s a lot more screaming: Jess, and sometimes his mom.

This sounds like Dean, speaking low and hoarse and hushed. Sam tries to hang onto the words: “…care of those rawheads your contact in Billings set us up with. Lit those fuckers up like the Fourth of July.” He breaks off to cough, harsh and wet and wheezing. “Anyway. I want you to know that, uh. I know you did the best you could. And, just. Thank you.”

His breath echoes sharply in the quiet room for several moments.

“Okay. Bye.”

+

Dean, predictably, is pissed when Sam navigates his car through gravel and mud and rolls to a stop outside a white tent on the property of Roy Le Grange, faith healer. He had woken up running a fever and it had taken Sam almost twenty minutes to get him cognizant and out of bed. The sweet, pungent odor of decay had clung to him like smoke.

Despite the muddy, uneven terrain, Dean shoves away Sam’s attempts to help him. He remains stony-faced as they make their way through the muck toward the tent, muttering about scams and wastes of time and not believing in things he can’t see.

Sam says, “Maybe it’s time to have a little faith, Dean.”

Faith, anger, desperation: Sam couldn’t care less, as long as it gets Dean into that church.

In the end, Layla smiles and greets them at the entrance, and Dean goes inside all the same.

+

“People are dying, Sam.” Joshua’s voice is low and urgent, crackling tinny through the earpiece on Sam’s phone, washed out by the distance between them. “I think it’s connected to the pastor somehow. To what he does. Think you can head that way and look into it?”

Sam rubs his stinging eyes, chews at the nailbed on his thumb until he tastes copper. His back aches from sleeping folded over dad’s journal. He doesn’t know what time it is.

He thinks of Dean, shot through with a hundred thousand volts and lying cold on the cement floor in that basement. Shivering under layers of blankets back at the hospital and looking smaller than he has any right to be, pale and vacant like he’s already mostly gone.

Sam says, “What exactly can the pastor do?”

+

Le Grange touches his palm to Dean’s clammy forehead. Sam watches his brother’s knees go out from under him, strike the hollow stage dully.

Dean’s eyelashes flutter; his face tilts up, up, up. Then his feverish eyes are wide open and he’s going slack-jawed and soft with awe, gazing at something only he can see, shuddering under the immensity of its power.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@withthedemonblood](http://withthedemonblood.tumblr.com).


End file.
